Feeding frenzy, p.9
Feeding Frenzy, page 9
“Does that mean federal aid?”
“You bet it does,” said Remo.
“I never shirk my responsibility to use my political power to help my constituents throughout this great land of ours.”
“Senator, your constituency is limited to Massachusetts. Does this mean you are planning another presidential run?”
“Let me say this about that: No.”
“What is your opinion on the HELP crisis, Senator?”
“As I told you,” Senator Clancy said, his voice tightening in sympathy with his grimace of a smile, “I’m here unofficially.”
“Senator, there are reports that Thrush Limburger is coming here, and that he’s prepared to expose HELP as some sort of hoax.”
Senator Clancy took up his asthma inhaler and squeezed the canister twice. He immediately began coughing. The thudding of aides’ hands on his broad back took several minutes to subside.
“I welcome,” Clancy said after his coughing jag abated, “any input into this grave health problem.”
“So you think HELP is real?”
“No, I didn’t say that.”
“Then is it a hoax?”
“That, I cannot say.”
“What can you say, Senator?”
“I look forward to Thrush Limburger’s arrival here at Nirvana West. Perhaps after he and I have had a chance to chat, I will have more to say on the matter.”
The Master of Sinanju said, “That man is a superb politician.”
“How’s that again?” Remo asked.
“All these people hang on his every word, and he is saying nothing.”
“How this guy can have a constituency is beyond me,” grumbled Remo. “He can’t keep his pants on or his liver dry.”
A woman, overhearing that, turned to him and said, “That’s an old-fashioned attitude.”
“Common decency isn’t old-fashioned. Yet.”
“I meant that it was true in the old days that we never cared what Senator Clancy did, only what he said. But today we’ve grown up. We don’t care what Neddo says, we only care what he does, and what he does is introduce all our legislation, just the way we write it. What he does in his private hours is his business.”
“That’s the trouble. None of what he does is private. It’s usually all over the front page.”
“Regressive,” the woman hissed.
“Moron,” Remo shot back. He turned to Chiun. “Let’s go, Little Father. I’ve seen enough.”
The way to their car was blocked by a clutch of white and black limousines.
“Sorry,” a chauffeur said. “You can’t pass.”
“It’s a free country and our car is on the other side of your cars,” Remo said tightly.
“We have instructions that no one should pass. Security.”
Remo scowled. “Security? Clancy’s back there.”
“Yeah, but his mother is here.”
“And if you keep your voices down, you won’t disturb her,” Remo pointed out.
Stubby Uzis came up from under the security men’s coats.
“We have instructions to shoot potentially hostile persons.”
Chiun stepped in front of Remo and said in a plaintive voice, “Please do not hurt my adopted son.”
Remo knew Chiun was setting them up for the kill. He hesitated. If any blood was shed, their cover would be blown.
So Remo brought his stiffened fingers up with blurry speed. And before the two guards knew what had happened, their machine pistols were cartwheeling into the underbrush and they were shaking their empty, numbed fingers and sucking air through clenched teeth.
“I didn’t know killer bees got this far north,” Remo said casually.
Just then a door popped open.
“Is there a problem?” a lilting voice asked.
The woman was slim and the color of a walnut. Her eyes were startlingly large, and so black they might have been constructed of shards of sunglass lenses.
She wore a vivid green sari that shimmered as she approached, topped by a shawl that framed her oval face like a cameo, and all but concealed her lustrous black hair.
The taller guard got control of himself and said, “I don’t know who these people are, Miss Nalini, but I told them they can’t get close to the cars.”
“What is the matter with your fingers?” she asked.
“They sting,” the short guard said tightly.
“Killer bees,” said Remo. “Maybe they’re what’s causing HELP. If I were you two, I’d see a doctor.”
The two guards just glared. They suspected Remo, but not having seen his hands move, could not accuse him. They recovered their weapons in silence.
“Who are you two, please?” the woman asked.
“It is none of your business,” Chiun hissed.
“Little Father,” warned Remo. “Let me handle this.” He addressed the dusky woman.
“We’re with the FDA. We’ve just been investigating the HELP thing and now we just want to find a decent hotel.”
The woman named Nalini looked Remo up and down curiously. Her limpid eyes shone. Then they went to the Master of Sinanju. Their gazes met and locked and a tightness came over each of their faces.
“Allow me to escort you both to your vehicle,” she said coolly. She gestured, and the guards lowered their Uzis slightly. They kept their fingers on the triggers.
“Thanks,” said Remo.
“It is my pleasure,” said the woman. “My name is Nalini.”
“We do not care,” said Chiun.
“He speaks for himself,” said Remo. “I care.”
Smiling, the woman lifted slim fingers to take Remo’s lean, hard forearm. Remo decided he liked her touch. And her perfume. It was an exotic, musky scent. Usually Remo hated perfume, but this one was both subtle and pleasant. There was none of the flowery excess of manufactured American scents. This had a fruity undersmell to it that reminded Remo of something faraway and unattainable.
“And what is your name?”
“Call me Remo.”
Chiun followed with his hands tucked into the sleeves of his kimono and his bearded chin in the air.
“I am the private nurse to Senator Clancy’s mother, Pearl,” Nalini told Remo.
“I’m surprised she’s still alive, after all these years.”
“She clings to life. She is a strong woman. Would you like to see her?”
“No,” said Chiun.
“We’re in a rush,” said Remo. “Honest. Another time.”
“Another time then.”
“How old is she anyway?”
“One hundred and three years old.”
Remo called back, “Hear that, Chiun? She’s older than even you!”
“I am only eighty.” snapped the Master of Sinanju, “and you are embarrassing me in front of my ancestors.”
“Your ancestors are lying in the ground and Nalini is just being polite. What’s the matter with you?”
Chiun hurried on, skirts flapping, his hands fists.
The sound of a car window humming down caught Remo’s attention. He turned his head and a face appeared in the rear window of the limousine from which Nalini had come.
The face was twisted, as if from paralytic stroke, but Remo recognized Pearl Clancy, matriarch of the Clancy clan. Her mouth hung slack-jawed and a tendril of drool leaked out and flowed into one of the webby wrinkle clusters around her mouth, which was grotesque with red lipstick.
“That’s her, huh?” asked Remo.
“I will be just a moment, Adji,” Nalini called. “That means Grandmother,” she whispered to Remo.
Pearl Clancy seemed not to understand a single word. Staring so hard her eyes seemed to bug out of her head, she brought pale clawlike hands up to her clenched face.
As Remo watched, she made bony fists on either side of her mouth and popped her forefingers out. Then she began wriggling them angrily, as if pointing at Remo. She was bouncing up and down in her seat.
“Come on,” said Nalini quickly.
“What was that all about?” Remo asked.
“She’s easily upset when left alone. Alzheimer’s.”
“That’s tough. It really is. Bad enough she had to suffer through two of her sons ending up dead and the third a public drunk.”
“What did you say your business was, Remo?”
“We’re here to look into HELP.”
Nalini touched a finger to her mouth. “A terrible thing, all these deaths and no one knows why.”
“By the time we’re done, everyone will know why. And how. And probably who too.”
“You sound very confident.”
“When Chiun and I get on something like this,” Remo said, surprised at his own boastful words, “we usually bust everything wide open.”
’’I see,” said Nalini in a quiet voice. Remo found himself disappointed in her response. For some reason, he wanted to impress her very much.
Chiun had reached the car when they drew near. His face wore an impatient frown.
“Well, thanks for your help,” Remo said.
“I am happy to. Tell me, where are you staying?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“There is a nice motel three miles beyond Ukiah. You might try that.”
“Thanks, I will.” Remo hesitated. Normally, he avoided entanglements when on assignment, but there was something about this dusky-skinned woman that caught his interest. “Gonna be here a few days?”
“Yes, I believe so.”
“Maybe I’ll catch you around.”
Nalini’s smile was a shy ivory carving beneath the luminous jewels that were her dark eyes.
“Maybe I will allow you to catch me,” she murmured.
And Remo smiled back.
He watched her walk away, her slim body swaying in time with the sari, and Remo thought he heard music.
Remo unlocked the door for Chiun and got behind the wheel. The Master of Sinanju’s face was a thing carved out of stone.
“What’s your problem?” Remo asked after they had started up the road.
“You let that harlot touch you.”
“And?”
“She is a Hindu.”
“So? She’s a nice person. Anyone who would take care of an old dingbat like Pearl Clancy has to have a good heart.”
“You did not hear what I said. She is a Hindu.”
“I did hear you, and I don’t care. I like her.”
“Hindus only eat with their right hands.”
“So?”
“You know what they do with their left hands.”
“No. And knowing you, I don’t want to hear.”
“They wipe themselves,” said Chiun. “Without toilet paper. That is why they do not eat with their left hands. Only their right.”
“I knew I didn’t want to hear it,” said Remo, gunning the engine.
“Now you will need to wash yourself,” Chiun sniffed.
“I’m sure Nalini is Americanized.”
“Nevertheless, until you have washed the parts of your body that woman has touched, do not touch me.”
“Oh brother. Anything else I should know in case I meet her again?”
“I did not like the color of her sari.”
“What was wrong with it?”
“It is too vivid.”
Remo eyed Chiun’s vermilion kimono. “Said the Korean fashion cop.”
Chapter Nine
Ukiah was smaller than Remo had expected. A tiny town of probably a thousand or so people. That limited the choice of hotels. There were two. And both had prominent ABSOLUTELY NO VACANCY signs lit up.
“Let’s hope the motel Nalini told me about has some space,” Remo said as they put the town behind them.
“It is no doubt infested with roaches if it serves Hindus,” Chiun sniffed.
“Get off it, will you?”
“Only if you promise not to get on that Hindu.”
“No deal.”
Remo drove on and three miles up the road came to a little ticky-tacky nest of bungalow duplexes.
“Doesn’t look so bad,” Remo said.
As Remo pulled into the parking lot, the Master of Sinanju said, “This does not meet my modest standards.”
Remo stabbed a finger out his window. “Look, see that sign? VACANCY. We’re in luck. It may not look it, but we are.”
“It is insufficient for my needs.”
“After the press gets all the film and quotes they want, they’re going to be descending on every fleabag motel from here to Oregon. We’re just lucky they’re so hot to get their stories they didn’t bother to book their rooms first.”
“I will consider it.”
“Or you can sleep in the car.”
“Only if you sleep in the trunk.”
They went in.
The front desk was about the size of a kitchen table and had the same kind of green-flecked formica top. The man behind it was under thirty and had dirty blond hair.
“Greetings, innkeeper,” proclaimed the Master of Sinanju. “We seek suitable lodgings.”
“He means we want a room,” said Remo.
“We will consider engaging a room if your establishment suits our needs,” corrected Chiun.
“You run a wonderful establishment,” said Remo, sliding a credit card across the formica countertop. “It comes highly recommended. Give us a bungalow.”
“We will negotiate once we have interviewed your room service chef,” proclaimed Chiun.
The desk clerk looked blank. “Room service chef?”
“You provide room service, of course,” said Chiun.
“From time to time, yeah.”
Chiun lifted his wide kimono sleeves to the ceiling. “Summon the illustrious purveyor of victuals.”
“Purveyor of victuals?” undertoned Remo.
“We are in the West,” whispered Chun, “I am speaking western.”
“Yippie ti yo-yo,” said Remo.
“Do you want a room or don’t you?” the desk clerk demanded.
“I do,” said Remo. “He’s up in the air. Consider us separate clients.”
The desk clerk looked unconvinced. “You gonna want room service?” he asked Remo.
“No.”
“Good, because I reserve the right to refuse finicky guests. There’re a bazillion press guys about two miles down the road and I foresee a long, busy night coming.”
“So do I. Where’s my key?”
The desk clerk handed Remo a brass key which had a greasy green tag hanging from it with the room number written in faded ink.
“Unit sixteen,” he said.
“Thanks,” said Remo, signing the credit card slip.
“What about me?” squeaked the Master of Sinanju, his face as tight as a cobweb.
The desk clerk said, “You want room service, I got a night man who’ll do a run to the Taco Hell. That’s when things are slow. They won’t be slow tonight.”
“Taco Hell!” huffed Chiun, stamping his feet. “Remo, this is totally unacceptable.”
“Not to me. And if I were you, pardner, I’d book a room quick because I feel a cool night coming on and that car looked mighty drafty to me.”
“I will take the room adjoining this ingrate,” said Chiun quickly. “Be sure to put it on his bill.”
The desk clerk eyed Remo. “That okay with you, sir?”
Chiun snapped, “He has no say in these matters.”
“Anything that placates him is fine with me,” sighed Remo.
“Where does one find true food in these parts?” asked Chiun.
“True...?”
“Rice...duck...fish.”
“There’s a Chinese restaurant in Ukiah. Yen Sin’s. You might try that.”
“Have their best dishes sent to my room and put it in on the white ingrate’s bill,” said Chiun.
“Sorry, the night man doesn’t go into Ukiah. Only to the Taco Hell, which is just up the road.”
“I’d have him make an exception in this case,” Remo told the desk man.
“I don’t see why I should.”
The Master of Sinanju reached up and took the charge machine. He eyed it critically. The desk man became nervous.
“Don’t drop that, sir.”
Chiun looked up. “This contraption is important to you?”
“Definitely. Can’t run the business without it.”
Chiun nodded. “I will hold it for ransom until I have rice and steamed duck, or unseasoned fish, in my room.”
“Sir, you don’t want me to come around and take that away from you, do you?”
“I do not care what you do as long as I have proper room service,” snapped the Master of Sinanju.
The desk clerk sighed and came out from behind his station.
He took hold of the charge machine before Remo could warn him. Chiun let him hold it long enough to get a good grasp. Then he rammed the heavy embossing slide from one end to the other, catching the desk man’s fingers painfully.
His scream was exquisite. He lifted up on tippytoe, found a higher register, and his eyeballs in his upward-pointing face started looking like white grapes being squeezed from wrinkled pink baby fists.
· · ·
Twenty minutes later, Remo and Chiun were seated on a very clean polyester rug in the middle of Chiun’s bungalow room eating rice off fine china supplied by the wife of the desk man, who had been exceedingly grateful to discover that his fingerbones, once he recovered his hand, were miraculously whole.
“Not bad,” said Remo.
Chiun made an unhappy face. “The rice has been boiled. I asked for steamed.”
“Maybe they don’t steam their rice out here.”
“Steamed rice is best. Whites insist upon boiling it. Whites and Chinese who try to pass for white.”
“Maybe it’s the cowboy way of eating rice,” Remo suggested airily.
“Do not be ridiculous, Remo,” said Chiun, putting the rice aside and attacking his duck. “Cowboys eat cows. That is why they are called cowboys.”
Without looking at the clock radio, Remo said, “I’d better call Smith before he leaves Folcroft for the night.”
“Leave him be. Smith will not be pleased that we have discovered nothing.”
“Smitty will worry if we don’t call in. This new President has him antsier than I’ve seen him in a long time.”
Harold Smith picked up on the first ring.
“Remo, what have you to report?”
